


Moritz Stiefel was Never Okay

by GirlyPhantom



Category: Frühlings Erwachen | Spring Awakening - Frank Wedekind, Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angels, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Canonical Character Death, Depression, F/M, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Loneliness, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Modern Era, One Shot, Other, Self-Hatred, Smoking, Spring, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Survivor Guilt, Toxic Masculinity, Tragedy, Underage Smoking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, melchi, moritz stiefel deserved better, no real ships only implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-14 01:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20592404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GirlyPhantom/pseuds/GirlyPhantom
Summary: Moritz had many issues in his life, this was a reflection some of them.





	Moritz Stiefel was Never Okay

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't read if any of this content is triggering to you! Pay attention to the tags! (Even tho this fandom is dead and no one will read anyways lol)

Moritz Stiefel was a very self destructive person.

Not only with the little things, like working himself until he couldn’t see straight, but the big things too. He knew what he was doing to himself but he honestly didn’t care. He didn’t care about his shortening lifespan and permanent scars left on his body. He didn’t care that he seemed almost insane to anyone looking on. What would it matter anyway, he wasn’t destined to be here long. He didn’t hope he was, at least. And if he was…. Well, he could always fix that. Whether it be an immediate fix or a long term one, it didn’t matter anyways. Everyone was destined to die someday, he just hoped it would be sooner than later.

Moritz Stiefel liked to play Russian Roulette with his life.

He had never actually played Russian Roulette before, though with his father’s pistol hidden in his sock drawer, it was tempting at times. He played in other ways that didn’t seem quite as obvious. Not obvious to others, and maybe not even obvious to Moritz. For example, he refused to look before crossing the street because he honestly didn’t care if there was a car coming or not. And he took walks at midnight, not caring if there was some kind of criminal hiding behind a corner to stab him. There were plenty of aspects in his life he purposefully wasn’t careful about. It’s not like any of it mattered anyways, he would tell himself. He couldn’t imagine being here all that long anyways.

Moritz Stiefel cared more about others than himself.

Saying that was a bit of an understatement, after all, he didn’t care about himself at all. It was more proper to specify that he would sacrifice his own sanity for his friends. Like when Martha told him about her father’s abuse, he told her to go to the police. He was her hand to hold through the ordeal, even though he was facing his own version of hell as soon as he got home. When Ilse said she couldn’t find food for herself, he snuck her food from his kitchen, even though he hadn’t bothered to eat anything more than toast in days. When Ernst struggled with his relationship with Hanschen, he rambled to Moritz, while Moritz ignored one of the classes he was failing in just to listen. When Melchior and Wendla asked for his secrecy when he found out of their night in the hayloft, he promised to keep it, but he didn’t tell them a single secret or feeling of his own in return.

Moritz Stiefel had trouble opening up to people.

Honestly, it was not just that he had trouble speaking to people. It was that he didn’t feel as though anyone would care. Why would they? He was just some ‘angsty’ teenager who liked to smoke his problems away. He didn’t leave a lasting impression on anyone, his friends could easily forget him, and his parents didn’t give a damn anyway. He was told that seeking help was weak, that real men didn’t cry and handled their problems themselves. But, god, that’s all he wanted to do. He just felt like breaking down and begging anyone he could to help him. Please, somebody, anybody, help. He had begun to lose his faith in God, he didn’t even have a being such as Him to rely on. He couldn’t scream or cry, he couldn’t make any noise at all. All he could do was choke back sobs and pray that his father in the other room didn’t hear him.

Moritz Stiefel felt completely and utterly alone.

It wasn’t that his parents weren’t there for him, he had accepted that fact long ago. And sure, he knew he had his friends, and his friends were everything to him. (In fact, his friends were the whole reason he stuck around most of the time.) But he still felt alone. It wasn’t in the moments where they were physically with him that it felt like this, it was when he had class alone and he was failing and had no one there to distract him from the fact or help him. It was when he was breaking down at three in the morning and nobody responded to his messages. It was when most people in his friend group had someone to love and he had no one. Maybe he had no one because he didn’t deserve anyone. Maybe everyone put on an act around him, pretended to like him, and discussed how pitiful they found his presence once he was gone? He supposed he would never know how true his inner thoughts on the matter could be.

Moritz Stiefel suffered with his internal thoughts.

In fact, he often pondered the value of life. He would anxiously fiddle with his hands while he stared out the window in his room. He would wonder why they were here, what the point to any of this was. Why should he bother to stay if he couldn’t make an impact? The motivation to live was hard for him to discover. He often found his mind drifting back to the worthlessness of life even when at first he was simply thinking of trivial things such as butterflies or politics. His thoughts were plagued by the simple question of why he should continue on, constantly. His mind liked to spiral without his permission. This had many different effects on him, sometimes it brought panic and anxiety, more so than what he usually felt. Sometimes it brought depression and self deprecating thoughts. And sometimes it just made him feel numb. Wouldn’t it be better to be an angel? All he wanted to do was have wings.

Moritz Stiefel was gone.

This was hard for his friends to get a grip on. The fact that they would never hear his rare, but spirit lifting, giggle again. The fact that they could no longer hold him and tell him everything was going to be okay like they never did enough while he was still alive. The fact that they would never see his curly mess of hair, his dark eyes, his heavily picked at fingers, or his dark eyebags ever again. When they found out Martha cried in despair, Ilse went quiet for days, Ernst broke down in Hanschen’s arms, Wendla tried to help everyone else while ignoring a hollow feeling in her chest, and Melchior felt nothing but guilt. He felt guilty that he hadn’t noticed how he was doing sooner, after all, him and Moritz were the closest of the bunch. He felt as though he hadn’t done enough to stop this from happening. He knew he wasn’t well. He knew life wasn’t easy for him. He knew he used to think too much. He just hadn’t thought he would take it this far.

Moritz Stiefel had killed himself.

And Melchior Gabor didn’t know who he blamed more, the shorter boy’s dad, or himself.

**Author's Note:**

> My poor children.


End file.
